


Doctor Porn Star Watson

by Ilyria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Star John, Porn Watching, Pornography, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Holmes and Sexuality, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilyria/pseuds/Ilyria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds out John did porn in his med school days, learns the origin of 'Three Continents', and discovers his long dormant sexuality along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Porn Star Watson

Sherlock comes across it when digging up information about John on the internet. It’s much more interesting than just asking the man directly, and he’s between cases, the London crime scene undergoing a dry spell of late. His efforts are rewarded when he discovers something about John that John would never freely admit to.

Of all the things that John could have dabbled in in his youth, Sherlock would sooner have believed drugs than pornography. Good, law-abiding John Watson who became a doctor to help people and a soldier to serve his country, who got firsts in school and was captain of the rugby team, is a prime example of a wholesome, upright man. And wholesome, upright men do not _do_ porn, even if they watch it on their computers from time to time out of sight of their wives.

But if there is any consistency to all of John Watson’s inconsistencies, it’s that he never fails to defy Sherlock’s expectations. Of course, to a young medical student desperate to pay rent and groceries, pornography is a lucrative, viable, and even time-effective solution.

Unearthing John’s pornographic past actually took longer than hacking into John’s confidential military files. Sherlock’s breakthrough into the work of ‘Hamish Dundas’ happens, conveniently, when John is working the overnight shift and isn’t due back until the next morning. So, of course, in the interest of primary research, Sherlock spends the entire night poring over porn starring his flatmate.

There is footage of John fucking women _and_ men, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions of his bisexuality. Sherlock doesn’t have much interest in the former: John performing cunnilingus or being in threesomes with buxom porn actresses. No, watching John thrust powerfully into another man from behind or a faceless man languorously suck John’s cock is far more exciting.

And what an impressive cock John has. He’s extremely well-endowed. It’s no wonder why the porn industry was so quick to accept him. How could porn producers turn away a young man fit from years of rugby with _such_ a pornworthy cock?

Sherlock has never been interested in pornography before. Porn doesn’t depict reality with the fit, hairless bodies, flawless skin, and dome-like, silicone breasts, and he’s more interested in all the nuances of human anatomy, fat, hair, blemishes and all. So he doesn’t account for the possibility that he would develop an obsession watching a fit, twenty-something John Watson fuck attractive women and men.

Even John, unobservant as he usually is, has noticed Sherlock’s taken up an avid new interest, wryly remarking on the dwindling number of experiments under 221B’s roof. Sherlock tactfully explains that he is just fascinated with the intriguing work of an acquaintance of his.

When John inquires who, Sherlock frowns at him in disapproval. “Really, John, it’s not polite to snoop into another person’s affairs.”

***

_Doctor Lovegood_ , the first porno on his list, features John as a doctor who treats patients with various sexual techniques.

Wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck, John enters an exam room and greets his patient, a lovely dark-haired woman with ample breasts. She disrobes without any shyness so he can conduct a physical. Things quickly lead to sex once he pronounces his diagnosis and begins undressing for his special method of treatment.

Sherlock catalogues John’s body, at this time fit, smooth, and free of faded war wounds, most notably that bullet scar, with more attention and interest than he’d ever admit to. He’s only seen brief moments of John naked, mostly when he enters the bathroom to demand something urgent of John when he’s in the shower, twice interrupting his wanking.

“Oh, Doctor, do what you must,” she simpers as a fully naked John grasps her thighs and lifts her onto the exam table. She lays down on her back and spreads her legs invitingly, her fake eyelashes fluttering as she gazes up at John. John positions himself on his knees in-between her legs and begins to lick her folds while fingering her clit.

The camera cuts out John’s head when it zooms in to the actress’ smouldering expressions as she moans like a sex kitten, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. Not interested in the sounds or faces the actress makes, he fastforwards to John fucking her atop the exam table. She’s keening, her long legs splayed over his strong forearms and her breasts bouncing with every thrust.

The noise she makes draws the attention of a blonde, coiffed nurse who enters the room and joins them. A threesome ensues with the two women simultaneously going down on John and John fucking them in turns.

Quickly losing interest, Sherlock moves on to the next video on his list.

***

Given his childhood dream of being a scourge of the high seas, Sherlock naturally takes to pirate porn. Unfortunately, it’s _heterosexual_ pirate porn, which Sherlock would’ve immediately disregarded if it weren’t for the sight of John in a handsome naval jacket.

Imaginatively titled _Porny Pirates_ , the swashbuckling porno stars John as a young, gallant naval captain nicknamed ‘Three Continents’ for his legendary sexual prowess across continents. Taken prisoner with his crew by busty Amazon pirates, John, bound in ropes, glares up at his captor. The pirate queen, who’s heard of Three Continents’ reputation and wants a taste of his famed skills in bed, circles John like a predator with her sabre drawn, leering at his fit, toned body.

Licking her plump, glossed lips in appreciation, the queen lifts up her short leather skirt and wrenches John’s head to between her legs by his cropped hair. John enthusiastically laps at her vagina, making her moan, and when he withdraws, his chin is shiny with saliva and her fluids. Kicking John’s shoulder so he lands on his back, the queen tears his trousers open and straddles his cock, her tits bouncing out of her tiny corset.

A grand orgy takes place on the deck of the ship as the queen’s crew takes their cue to use the captured men however they want.

It’s all a very straightforward male sexual fantasy. Banal, pedestrian, and utterly dull. Sherlock wouldn’t waste time on it if it weren’t for the delectable fantasy material of John wearing a naval jacket fucking a pirate.

As it is, he imagines himself having his wild, scoundrel way with John. He can tie John’s arms to the posts of his great bed and ride him like he’s breaking in a wild stallion. Or he can have John on his knees between his high leather boots, licking his prick while he relaxes back in his captain’s chair.

Thinking of John like this is quite satisfying, _exhilarating_ even. Sherlock steadfastly does not let himself think of why.

***

The first video Sherlock watches of John with a man also happens to be the first time John has sex with one. He can tell from John’s too cautious expression that this is entirely new to him.

The video is cheaply produced, really just a camera filming the pair of them on a sofa in a dimly-lit room. John’s partner is a thin, knobby ginger twink with freckles who crawls on his hands and knees over to where John reclines, nude and splayed out like a blonde sun god. John’s thick cock is already erect, pointing at his defined abs.

The ginger does a slow, pornographic lick of his lips before descending on John’s thick cock. He makes obscene, broad licks and tongues the head of the cock. One by one, he demonstrates his repertoire of fellating tricks before swallowing as much of John’s cock as he can and kneading with his fingers what he can’t fit in his mouth. John’s head falls back and he groans low.

The twink bobs his head on the cock and then takes it further by completely deepthroating John. Sherlock can see John gallantly holding back from the urge to thrust into the twink’s throat.

The twink gags prettily on John’s cock, his red and swollen lips stretched around the girth. Then John does something that makes Sherlock stop breathing. He fists a broad hand in the ginger curls and tugs hard, forcing the twink’s head still. The twink chokes, but instead of withdrawing, John delivers a light thrust into his mouth. Then again, and again, fucking his pretty mouth.

When he nears climax, John pulls out. The twink, his mouth well-fucked, closes his eyes and holds his mouth open for John’s come. Ribbons of semen land on the corner of his mouth, half inside and half on his cheek. He swipes his tongue over the come before looking slyly at the camera like a satisfied cat.

Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s sporting an erection until he closes his laptop and gets up from his chair. All he can think of is John’s thick, glistening cock and if it would fit in his mouth.

***

Sherlock doesn’t masturbate, but that’s not to say he’s never touched himself. Like food or sleep, sex doesn’t have a hold over him like with regular human beings. He scorns fools who are slaves to their libido, firmly believing that sex is one of the strongest motivators of murder and stupidity.

But that night when John is sound asleep in his bed and Sherlock is laying down in his, his hand involuntarily draws to the front of his silk dressing gown.

He’s hard. From the video he watched of John fucking that dark-haired twink with dimples. In four different positions, no less.

He closes his eyes, remembering the twink on his knees, looking over his shoulder at John while spreading his arsecheeks open for John’s cock. With one hand, John guides the head of his cock to the puckered rim and then pushes in inch by inch to the hilt, making the twink cry out as he’s slowly penetrated. And then John’s rocking in and out, fucking him, skin slapping against skin repeatedly.

Sherlock snaps his eyes open, inhales sharply. His erection has just twitched under his palm from the memory. He unties his dressing gown and slips a hand into his pants.

He envisions John again, this time lying on his back as the twink rides him. John fists the twink’s prick with one hand, his other palm slapping the twink’s perky arse. Sherlock’s fingers enclose around his own arousal and tugs.

Sweet pleasure spikes through him. He wraps his hand around himself in earnest and pumps up and down, imagining it is John’s strong, calloused hand working him instead. Imagines John’s other hand cupping his arsecheek, his rough fingertips sliding inwards, and then—

His breath hitches. He thinks of the twink’s arsehole stretched tight around John’s thick girth. Does he dare? Never able to resist curiosity, he brings his other hand south and tentatively brushes where he’s never been touched before.

It’s an odd sensation. He fingers the rim and whimpers when he pushes a fingertip in. He’s too dry. Needs some sort of lubricant. Tomorrow then.

He wanks himself to completion, muffling his cries in the pillow.

***

The next afternoon when John is occupied at the surgery, Sherlock slips out to a discreet, posh sex shop in Kensington. He buys five different dildoes in varying sizes and girths—thorough research has always been a foundation of his modus operandi—and several tubes of lube. The clerk, cool and professional, doesn’t bat an eye and even makes recommendations that pique Sherlock’s curiosity, toys like anal beads and plugs and prostate stimulators. So much to explore.

He also picks up several books on sex positions and sexual techniques—all for research into human behaviour, of course—and is too eager and curious to wait until 221B that he unabashedly flips through them on his way home.

When he arrives back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson is unfortunately, inconveniently, home. He thinks of a plausible excuse to have her leave for the better part of the day but decides the truth is more effective, given the notoriety of his experiments. “Mrs. Hudson, I must warn you that whatever you may hear in the next several hours is part of a very important experiment regarding human behaviour that must not be disturbed at any cost.” He makes her promise and locks the door to his bedroom.

Time to pla— _experiment_.

Already half-hard with anticipation, he strips off his clothes at manic speed and kneels on the bed. He’s already decided which dildo to try first: the flesh-toned, eight inch, silicon replica of a real penis. Maybe he can have one made of John’s. Maybe he can even get John to let him take measurements of his cock in the interest of research and experimentation.

The lube feels cold on his fingers so he lets it warm up before circling his fingertips over his arsehole. Taking a deep breath, he breaches the ring of muscle and pushes in to the first knuckle.

It’s an odd sensation, one that can’t be compared. Uncomfortable but intriguing. He slowly pushes in more, then begins to move his finger in and out. Eventually, he adds another finger, trying to stretch the hole.

Never one for patience, he plays with his arsehole for a little while longer before lubing up the dildo. He’s probably not loose enough, but he can’t wait any longer. He positions the blunt, thick head at his hole and pushes it in. The penetration hurts, makes him whimper.

Once it’s in as far as Sherlock can take it, which is really only a few inches, he stills, trying to adjust to the sensation of being stretched by something thick, of being filled. It’s strange, but he can’t deny it’s a wonderful feeling.

When he feels ready, he starts moving the dildo, slowly at first and then with more speed. He pushes it in deeper and groans. With his other hand, he roughly pulls on his cock. The dildo brushes against a bundle of nerves inside him, and he sees stars, losing his rhythm. A few more strokes and tugs and he spills over the edge.

If this is what masturbation is like, he can understand why the vapid masses are so obsessed with it.

***

Sherlock only dares to watch the videos when John is ensconced at work for hours. He watches them in the living room and his bedroom and even once plays with himself on John’s bed, burying his face into John’s pillow and inhaling John’s shampoo when he comes.

He sometimes wonders—hypothetically, of course, only for the purpose of research—should he and John engage in sexual intercourse, how John would fuck him. Would John take him from behind or on his back, his legs over his shoulders? Or would John prefer Sherlock to ride him, fingers spread on his pectorals for balance while he bounces on his cock? Would John watch Sherlock while he thrusts into him or close his eyes at the sensation? How far down his throat would John’s cock go? The taste of John’s sperm? The length and thickness and weight of his girth? So much data to gather and analyze. (Despite how much he imagines sex with John would be though, Sherlock does not permit himself to think of what may follow the sex, how John would feel about it and subsequently behave towards him.)

Perhaps if he can outline rational reasons (convenience, no strings attached recreation, no complications with women) to convince John why they should have sex together, John may see the logic and agree to it.

Sherlock forces himself to think of something else before his thoughts can lead him somewhere dangerous.

***

A firm hand shakes his shoulder. Sherlock startles awake on the sofa, having fallen asleep after a long period spent in his Mind Palace reviewing a naked twentysomething John doing innumerable sexy things to him.

John smiles fondly down at him, holding his coat and a suitcase. “Good morning, sorry to wake you. Just wanted to say goodbye.”

Alarmed, Sherlock shoots up in an arc, eyes wide. Say goodbye?

“Going to Glasgow for three days. Medical conference, remember? Didn’t want to just take off while you were asleep.”

Three days? Yes, he recalls John mentioning this some time ago. With the lack of cases lately and John’s long, steady shifts at the surgery, Sherlock feels like he hasn’t spent time with John in days. And now John will be gone until Sunday evening, further depriving Sherlock of his company. The only good thing about this is that Sherlock can watch and wank to John’s porn videos without worry of being found out.

Perhaps this isn’t so terrible after all.

“Until Sunday then. Goodbye, John.”

He doesn’t dare touch his laptop until John is safely 400 miles away at his hotel. Once John has texted him to say so (because John is thoughtful like that, not because Sherlock worries about a competent ex-army doctor traveling on his own), he settles into John’s bed to watch his porn playlist for the sixty-seven hours before John walks through 221B’s doors.

***

The successful resolution of a case has Sherlock high and giggling as he collapses into the brick wall of an alleyway. Beside him, a mirthful John is also struggling for breath in-between fits of giggles.

It will take 4.25 minutes by Sherlock’s estimation for Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard to arrive on the scene. John is looking up at him with that smile of genuine awe and admiration.

Before Sherlock is aware his limbs have moved, he’s cupping John’s face, cold and flushed from the night exertion, and his mouth is on John’s.

John responds magnificently. His arms circle Sherlock’s trim waist and secure him to his warm, solid chest. His mouth moves against Sherlock’s with confidence and ease, clearly knowing what to do. If Sherlock had known this would be the result, he would’ve kissed John sooner.

Sherlock yelps when without warning John grabs his arse and _squeezes_. John swallows the cry, delving his tongue deep into Sherlock’s mouth. He grinds his hips into Sherlock, and Sherlock’s mind goes blank when his erection meets his own.

John’s warm breath tickles as he growls into his ear, “Do you feel that? Bet you want it, don’t you? My thick cock fucking your tight, little arse? How many times have you got off to the thought of it?”

Sherlock whimpers at the dirty talk. He didn’t know he can want this so much.

John thrusts into him, a wicked glint in his eye. He’s really going to do it. He’s going to take Sherlock up against the wall in broad daylight, fuck his brains out for Scotland Yard to see upon arrival.

Oh _yes_ , that thought is so pleasing Sherlock nods enthusiastically to show his approval. John smirks between kissing and sucking on Sherlock’s neck, his hands deftly divesting Sherlock’s coat and belt. Sherlock gasps when his heated erection and bare bottom are exposed to cold air.

Once Sherlock’s trousers are around his knees, John manhandles him around so he’s up against the brick wall and sticks three fingers into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Suck, make them as wet as you can. It’s all you’re going to get,” he orders into Sherlock’s ear, his right hand fondling his prick.

Sherlock does what he’s told, laps at the thick, calloused fingers one by one.

John marvels at how obedient he is, tells him what a good, little slut he is. Instead of angering him, it makes Sherlock preen and want to please John, do whatever he wants and more.

Then John withdraws his fingers. Sherlock waits to feel those fingers stretch him open, the callouses rough on the sensitive rim, but nothing breaches his tight, pink pucker.

“Touch me.” He needs John, his cock, his fingers, his tongue, anything, inside him right this moment.

Nothing happens. Why is John being so cruel? Can’t he see how much Sherlock _needs_? Sherlock needs him to fuck his arse until he can’t walk straight for days, to bang his prostate until Sherlock goes blind and sports matching bruises on his hips. Sherlock needs to feel John blow his load deep inside, fill him up with his come until Sherlock’s overflowing with it and it’s drizzling out of his abused hole and down his thighs.

He lets out a desperate whine. “John, _please_. I need you to touch me!”

Then, after what feels an eternity, John’s warm hands settle around his hips almost too gently, the opposite of the forceful way he was just handling Sherlock with.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” John’s voice is low, too reverent to be the same one that growled a command into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock opens his eyes, feels his eyelashes brush against his pillow.

No, _John’s_ pillow. It’s not a brick wall his cheek is pressed against, but a pillow instead. He’s in John’s bed, on his front with his arse high in the air.

And John is really standing behind him, his hands gently bracketing his bare arse.

The high in the aftermath of a case, John shoving him up a brick wall, the desperate groping—all of it was merely a dream conjured from all the pornography he consumed recently, and now John— _John_ in the flesh—is standing by the bed, having witnessed Sherlock have a sexual fantasy about him.

Sherlock, whose absolute disregard for shame is often unrivalled, feels he can die from sheer mortification. Panicking, he jerks away from John’s touch, scrambling as far away as he can get on John’s bed.

John’s eyes are soft as he watches him. Tender-like.

Sherlock feels his face burn. In his periphery, he can see his dildo abandoned on the duvet and the open-capped lube on the nightstand, but thankfully, his laptop is off and not playing a video of an orgy. Even given John’s amateur observation skills, he should be able to piece together the evidence and reach an irrefutable conclusion.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Too embarrassed to endure what John has to say, Sherlock goes on the offensive. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the conference?”

Sixty-seven hours can’t possibly have gone by so quickly. Not even in Sherlock’s worst case of being wrapped up in his Mind Palace has he lost track of time like this.

“The seminar I was interested in on the last day got cancelled, so instead of dossing around Glasgow for a day, I wanted to come home early and spend the rest of the weekend with you,” John explains, patient and sincere, his eyes still soft.

Curling into a ball against the headboard, Sherlock draws his knees together to hide his now flagging erection and squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to disappear and for John to forget what he’s seen. If only he had the power to delete memories from other people’s brains.

“Oh, don’t do that.” John rests his left hand on Sherlock’s knee and reaches out with the other to stroke his cheek. “Open your eyes. You’re absolutely _gorgeous_.”

The compliment catches Sherlock by surprise. He opens his eyes to find John looking at him with wonder, affection, and—there’s no question of it—desire.

“Look at you. I can’t believe it. You in _my_ bed, touching yourself and calling out for me.” John runs the hand on Sherlock’s knee down the side of his thigh, up his hips and ribs, and damn Sherlock’s sensitive body for responding to his touch.

“Is this okay? Tell me this is okay,” John says the last part in a rush. Like he needs Sherlock’s express consent, as if the involuntary way Sherlock’s body arches under his hand, chasing after his touch, isn’t confirmation enough.

There’s no use denying it. “I want you, John.” The confession flies out before Sherlock can think twice. “I want to feel you inside me.”

Sherlock clamps a hand over his mouth, horrified at his own lewd plea.

John’s eyes widen.

Oh, he’s done it now. Now John is shocked by how wanton he is. Sherlock shouldn’t have said that, no matter how much he’s coveted John’s cock up his arse since he first watched him push it into another person.

“Is that right, sweetheart?” John all but breathes out. Then he pulls away, and Sherlock’s heart plummets down his stomach.

But John just takes hold of the hem of his shirt and yanks it over his head, revealing his solid chest. It’s broader, scarred, and more rugged than in his twenties. Sherlock wants very much to run his tongue over every inch. John’s belt goes next, followed by his trousers.

Sherlock’s eyes alight on the prominent bulge between his legs. _Oh_ , John’s aroused.

Well, Sherlock is willing to take care of that for him. Never mind that he’s never been tasked with another’s pleasure before; he’s eager to learn all the ways of making John Watson come.

Then John is pulling his pants down and stepping out of it so they’re both naked in John’s bedroom.

When a person intentionally gets naked with another person in a bedroom, it usually leads to sex. Please, please, _please_ let that be the case now, Sherlock prays as he stares wide-eyed at the source of his obsession for days.

John’s cock is every bit as glorious in real life as in porn. Sherlock wants to lick it, put it inside his mouth, feel the weight and heat of it on his tongue.

Entranced, Sherlock watches as John takes the lube on the nightstand and climbs onto the mattress, his stiff cock curving upwards between his thighs. He can’t breathe when John spreads his long legs apart and settles in between them.

John kisses him long and sweet while preparing him for penetration. Being fingered by John is a million times better than Sherlock opening himself to take a phallus, but soon John’s fingers aren’t enough. Thankfully, because John is perfect and always knows what Sherlock wants, Sherlock doesn’t have to ask for it.

John is _so_ big. Sherlock’s head hits the headboard, his eyes falling shut, as his hole stretches around John’s girth. John slides in slowly and stops once fully sheathed to let Sherlock adjust to the delicious burn.

Sherlock moans once John starts rocking. John takes Sherlock’s erection in hand and pumps him in rhythm to his thrusts. Sherlock’s back flies off the mattress when one particular thrust hits home.

Being fucked by John Watson is so good that Sherlock, with his natural inclination to addiction, won’t stand a chance of resisting this. Once is not enough. Sherlock will continue to want this and crave this in the future.

It takes only a few hard thrusts for Sherlock to see stars. He comes after only a short period of time, which he knows is embarrassing and undesirable in a partner but how can he possibly hold on for long when being banged by John?

A terrible thought sets in after his euphoric release. What if John finds Sherlock unsatisfactory for finishing so quickly? He didn’t mean to—he wanted John to fuck him in at least three different positions before coming. Being taken like this the first time is good—he can observe John’s face as he fucks Sherlock this way—but he also wanted to take John’s cock on all fours, maybe ride him too. And there’s that position from _Porny Pirates_ that he wants to try. How can he show John he can be good in bed before John gives up on him?

He’s about to apologize profusely but John seals their mouths together and darts his tongue inside.

When they part, John grins down at him as if Sherlock is marvellous, like he did more than just lie there and moan like a whore. “You’re so sensitive, coming just like that.”

Well, Sherlock may have come, but John hasn’t yet, so he still has his chance to make John feel so good he’ll want to have sex with Sherlock again.

He locks his legs around John’s back to prevent him from pulling out, determined to make this good for John. But John just strokes his sides and leans in to tenderly kiss his temple

“Sherlock, aren’t you tired from your orgasm? We don’t need to continue if you don’t want to.”

Don’t continue? But if they don’t continue, Sherlock can’t make it up to John and show him how much pleasure he can give him in bed.

He grinds down on John’s cock and almost croons in delight when he elicits a growl from John. “I want to feel you come inside me.” It’s the honest truth.

John exhales heavily, his eyelids heavy with lust. “All right.” He manoeuvres them on the bed so Sherlock is on his back instead of being propped up by the headboard, his knees over John’s shoulders, and begins plowing Sherlock in earnest.

Tears well in Sherlock’s eyes. His abused hole is still too sensitive from his orgasm.

“Ooh, _John_ ,” he cries out when John hits a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves.

John shifts his angle to pound that sweet spot, pistoning his hips faster and harder into Sherlock. Sherlock can’t stop wailing from the sheer joy of being used for John’s pleasure, of having his wits banged out of him.

Just when Sherlock feels like he’s going to pass out from pleasure, John finally spills into him with a deep groan. Sherlock can feel the hot semen spurting into his inner walls, and like a filthy slut, _loves_ it.

Everything from his jelly-like legs to his abused, stretched hole to the hot sperm inside him feels so perfect and right that Sherlock lets his eyes fall shut and drifts off to tender fingers stroking his curls.

Later when he comes to, it’s to the sound of John chuckling in embarrassment. Sherlock is curled up beside John, neatly tucked under the duvet. His stomach is wiped clean from when he came on himself, but to his relief, he can still feel John’s come swishing inside his arsecheeks, a bit trickling out.

John beams down at him. Balanced on his lap is Sherlock’s laptop, currently playing _Porny Pirates_.

“I can’t believe I actually said that. The dialogue is even cheesier than I remembered. In fact, I still can’t believe how popular this got. Had people in the army recognizing me from this. After the first week, everybody was calling me Three Continents Watson,” John tells him, still embarrassed. “Is this what you were watching when I was away?”

Sherlock is _not_ going to confirm that even with all the overwhelming evidence against him. But his stubborn silence is all the answer John needs.

Shutting the laptop, John puts it away on the nightstand before settling down to eye-level with Sherlock, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You don’t need to watch this anymore, Sherlock. From now on, if you want, you can have the real thing. I’ll do you however, whenever you like,” he promises.

Sherlock is only too happy to take him up on that offer. An excellent, brilliant idea strikes him.

“Can we make our own porn?”


End file.
